


Carrot Cake

by Noëlle McHenry (Quasi_Detective)



Series: Don't Be Bashful [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Arguing, Birthday, Birthday Cake, Birthday Presents, Canon Backstory, Cats, Childhood, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extramarital Affairs, Family, Family Drama, Gen, Jealousy, Murder, Pets, Rabbits, Switzerland, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 08:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13760184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/No%C3%ABlle%20McHenry
Summary: About to turn nine years old, Cameron wants to grow up. Birthdays can't come soon enough, especially when they mean visiting his favorite city. But this year, since he lost his last pet, his parents take pity and get him one that's easier to take care of. Of course, they don't realize that the last pet's demise wasn't as much of an accident as they thought.





	Carrot Cake

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Our Sick Obsessions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13537836) by [Noëlle McHenry (Quasi_Detective)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/No%C3%ABlle%20McHenry). 



When Cameron was eight-and-a-half years old, his mother bought him a kitten. Its soft, puffy fur was a mix of brown and black, contrasted by its pretty pale blue eyes. Despite his mother’s small protest that it was a dog’s name, he dubbed the kitten “Max”. Max was his pride and joy; the kitten loved him and would never leave his side. Whenever it asked for affection, he’d give it without a second thought. Two months later, he held Max under the water of the nearby creek until it stopped struggling. He’d wanted to see if it could fight him. It couldn’t.  
          Though he did tell his parents Max had drowned, he didn’t tell them how it happened. In retrospect, he almost wished he’d told them while pretending to cry, because the casual way he brought it up seemed to disturb them. He watched as his mother shot his father an anxious look. His father reciprocated it, though not so visibly shaken. Then, his mother looked back down at him. She ran her hands down the small apron around her waist before kneeling down in front of him. One of her pale hands gripped his shoulder, half for comfort and half to support herself in the crouch.  
          “Cameron, honey,” she crooned. “That’s awful. I’m sorry.” Her arms opened wide. “Come here.”  
          Despite how her offer of affection confused him, he wasn’t about to pass it up. Moving into her arms, he held her tight. She embraced him, petting the back of his black-haired head. Compared to him and his father, Cameron’s mother seemed out of place. While both of the men had dark ecru-skin, black hair, and eyes of dark caramel, her skin was porcelain white, hair light brown, eyes green. The most Cameron had inherited of her genetics was that his skin was a fraction lighter than his father’s. Regardless, Cameron liked how she stood out from them. He couldn’t say he loved her, but she was his favorite of the two. Stubborn at times, though . . .  
          After a moment, she said, “Listen, Cammy . . . Would you like to see your grandparents early this year?”  
          “Linda,” his father barked. He was sitting at the dining room table reading a newspaper, but he lowered the paper as he said her name.  
          “Derrick, don’t start,” she responded. Then, she looked back down at Cameron. She lifted his face and smiled at him. “What do you say, honey?”  
          Cameron considered it. His grandparents—his mother’s parents—lived in Zürich. He enjoyed Switzerland very much; they went there for a month every year for his birthday. Being able to spend a little more than a month in his favorite city was an exciting thought. So, of course, he nodded his little head.  
          “Yeah?”  
          “Yeah.”  
          His mother smiled and ruffled his bangs. Bringing her attention to them, her smile turned a little softer. “Are you always going to slick these up like daddy?”  
          Cameron shrugged.  
          His father lifted his newspaper again. “Cameron, why don’t you go play in your room for a bit? We’ll call you when lunch is ready.”  
          He glanced at the older man. Usually, if he told him to leave the room, it was because he expected an argument to start. Cameron always found their fights interesting to eavesdrop on. It made him feel grown-up, to try to figure out what motivated their sides of the argument. Sometimes he couldn’t figure it out, though. Grown-ups were so strange sometimes. Would he have pointless arguments like theirs, too, when he was older?  
          “Okay, dad.” He wasn’t sure when he’d stopped calling him “daddy”. It felt like a recent change, but he liked to pretend he’d always called him “dad” instead.  
          After leaving the kitchen, he headed for the stairs. But rather than go up to the second floor, he sat on one of the steps and listened. For a few beats, all was silent but for the sound of his mother putting meat on the pan. Its sizzling made it so he’d have to listen a little harder.  
          Finally, his father said, “We’re not going to Switzerland until June, Linda.”  
          “June’s only two weeks away,” she responded.  
          “Two weeks that I’d much rather spend away from your parents. You know those two hate me.”  
          “Well, maybe if you tried to show them some respect . . .”  
          “I don’t know why we bother to visit them at all.”  
          “Because they deserve to see their grandson. Cameron likes them, anyway.”  
          He didn’t, not really; what he liked was Zürich. Rather than break this news to her, though, he decided it was easier to let her believe what she wanted.  
          “He only likes them because he’s not old enough to realize—”  
          “Derrick, please. He’s just lost that kitten. I thought it’d make him feel better.”  
          “We shouldn’t be rewarding him. If he’d taken better care of the cat, or kept a better eye on it, it wouldn’t have drowned.”  
          “How can you be so heartless? Where’s your compassion?”  
          “Pfft, compassion. Does _he_ have compassion?”  
          “What? What are you saying? Who?”  
          “You know exactly who.”  
          “I don’t think I do.”  
          “John.”  
          John was the next-door neighbor, but his mother always called him “Uncle John” when they were alone. Working as a heart surgeon took his father away often. During these times, Uncle John would always come to take his place. Uncle John was white and a bit overweight, but his mother liked him a lot for some reason. She’d made Cameron promise not to mention how she kissed him. To his father, she always called him “John”. But, a few weeks ago, she’d slipped up and mentioned him to Cameron, as “ _Uncle_ John”, while his father was in the other room. Since then, Uncle John was a hot topic for their arguments. His mention was frequent, but also boring for Cameron. He couldn’t understand why that fat oaf was so relevant to them. So what if his mother kissed him? So what if they went upstairs alone and his mother moaned louder than she did with his father? Why did everything come back to him?  
          “Derrick, I told you; I call him that to Cameron so he can understand he’s not a stranger. He only comes over to babysit while you’re gone.”  
          “Why do I have a hard time believing that, Linda?”  
          “I don’t know.”  
          “I think you do.”  
          “I really don’t. You’re making something of nothing.”  
          They said nothing else. Cameron found this a tad surprising; for once, their argument hadn’t dwindled into a screaming match. Was that a good or bad sign? Either way, before they called him down for lunch, he snuck the rest of the way upstairs and went to his room.  
          A few days later, all three of them were in Zürich. As they waited for a taxi, Cameron jogged around the airport in excitement. He lived for new experiences; with how little time they spent there a year, Zürich was always a new experience. Something about the city would always captivate him, though he wasn’t sure what. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he felt like his life would change in this city. Whether for better or worse, who knew? The excitement of the possibility of either was enough for him.  
          His grandparents, Dottie and Chandler Peak, lived in an expensive, two-storey house on the other side of Lake Zürich. Nice as they were, he liked the house more, to be honest. With most of its contents, inside and out, being white, it looked innocent and pristine. When he was even younger, he’d often tried to get away with dirtying it in secret. The times Dottie caught him, she’d gently scolded him. Chandler was a lot rougher with his punishment. Cameron had fast learned to play the role of a good boy around him. Somehow, he got the feeling the old man didn’t like him either way, though.  
          The first two weeks of their visit passed with little event. His mother talked with Dottie a lot about things Cameron didn’t care to listen to. Meanwhile, his father and Chandler glared at each other a lot. Then came Cameron’s birthday, on the 13 th. As usual, he was the second person to wake up. When he went downstairs, he found Dottie sitting in front of the sliding glass doors to the backyard. Without her even needing to ask, he approached, sitting in the seat beside hers, meant for Chandler. She looked over and smiled at him.  
          “Good morning, Cameron.”  
          “Good morning.”  
          “Did you sleep well?”  
          “I guess so.”  
          Dottie nodded. For a beat, she was quiet. Then: “Say. Today’s your birthday, isn’t it?”  
          “Yep.”  
          “How old are you now, dear?”  
          “Nine.”  
          “Nine? Wow. They grow up so fast.”  
          “I wish I was older.”  
          The old woman responded with a bittersweet laugh. “Before you know it, you’ll be wishing the opposite.”  
          “I won’t.”  
          “That’s what I thought, when I was your age.”  
          A few seconds of silence. She might’ve thought Cameron was taking in her wise words, because he was. But at the forefront of his mind, he was still certain he’d prove her wrong. Who wanted to be young? Being young was so boring. When he was older, he could do anything he wanted. The world would be his oyster.  
          “Seeing as it’s your special day,” Dottie began, “would you like to go to the store to get your cake after breakfast?”  
          “Yes, please!”  
          “You still like carrot cake, right?”  
          Cameron nodded. “Mm-hmm.”  
          A bit amused by his unusual preference, Dottie hummed to herself and gazed outside. “Whatever the birthday boy likes, the birthday boy gets.”  
          The little boy grinned.  
          About an hour later, Chandler finally came downstairs. Shortly after, from the basement came Cameron’s mother. As they took their seats at the table, Dottie started to prepare breakfast: toast for Chandler, eggs for Cameron’s parents, and carrot muffins for herself and Cameron.  
          “Where’s Derrick?” she asked as she flipped the eggs.  
          “He’ll be up in a few minutes, I reckon,” answered Cameron’s mother. “Do you need some help, mom?”  
          “No thanks, sweetheart. I’ve got this.”  
          His mother sighed and looked a bit tense for a moment. When she noticed he was staring at her, she smiled for him, reached over and massaged his hand.  
          Derrick did indeed join them a few minutes later. Once breakfast was ready, everyone took their time getting dressed.  
          “Are mom and dad coming with us this time?” inquired Cameron as Dottie doted on him, buttoning his coat even though he could do it himself.  
          “No, dear. They’re going somewhere else,” she answered.  
          “Why?”  
          “To get you another present, I figure.”  
          Another present? Something bought in Zürich? Cameron could hardly wait.  
          As usual, the cake Cameron picked at the store wasn’t presented to him until after lunch. Everyone sang happy birthday to him, even Chandler, though he did it without much feeling. When they finished, Cameron giggled a bit.  
          “Make a wish, Cammy,” his mother urged.  
          Cameron gazed at the candles sticking out of the carrot cake. After a long moment, he finally decided on something and blew out the flames. Everyone clapped.  
          Present after present, Cameron accepted them all with a mature humbleness. Then, his mother headed into the basement.  
          “Where’s mom going?” he inquired.  
          “I’m not sure,” his father replied, though his tone made it obvious he was lying. Cameron tried not to mind, since he’d know the truth soon enough. That it kept things interesting justified the lie in his eyes.  
          When she returned, she did so with a small, covered cage. Dottie and Chandler eyed this, uncertain about what was inside. Since there was no chirping, Cameron felt it safe to assume it wasn’t a bird, but he couldn’t be sure.  
          “Since you lost Max, your dad and I decided to get you something smaller. Something . . . easier to look after.”  
          As Cameron gazed in mute curiosity, his dad gave him a pat on the back.  
          “Lift the cover, buddy. It won’t bite.”  
          Cameron reached out with reluctance. Between two fingers, he caught the cover and lifted it up. Inside the cage was a fluffy white bunny rabbit. All at once, Cameron found himself entranced with it; he opened the cage door, reached in, and took a gentle hold. It squirmed a little, then relaxed. Its small pink nose twitched as it sniffed his palm.  
          “We bought a lot of carrots,” his father told him, “so you can share with it.”  
          “It’s so cute,” Cameron gushed.  
          “What are you going to name him?” Dottie asked.  
          Cameron thought for a beat. Then, he answered, “Bashful.”  
          “Bashful? What an unusual name.”  
          “I think it’s a fine name,” countered his mother. “Look at it. That name suits it.”  
          Cameron smiled at Bashful. The rabbit let out a small huff through its nostrils and blinked at him with its beady ruby eyes. When his mother’s Nokia cellphone started to ring, she tensed a bit. She hesitated before pulling it from her purse, sat on the kitchen island. With a forced casual tone, she answered and left the room. Cameron glanced at his father; caught him glaring after her before he corrected his face.  
          Bringing Bashful back to Pittsburgh with them a week later was a little bit of a hassle, but they managed. The rabbit’s presence had absorbed Cameron’s life; he’d hardly noticed that his parents argued more and more. The whole flight, they were silent. Now that they were back home, they started arguing again. Over and over, all day long, they’d scream and throw things at each other. Cameron, meanwhile, spent most of his time in his room with Bashful. He loved watching it chew on baby carrots.  
          It was the 27th, his mother’s birthday, when, while in the kitchen with Bashful, he heard her come downstairs. Standing in the living room, where his father was, she said,  
          “I’m leaving you.”  
          Cameron froze. Had he heard that right? She was leaving? What did that mean? She wasn’t leaving for good, was she? No. Dad wouldn’t let her do that.  
          “What?” his father asked.  
          “We’re not good for each other, and you’re scaring me. Every day, we fight. We scream. We’ve started _throwing_ things at each other; do you think that’s _normal_ , Derrick?”  
          “No. I never said that.”  
          “Then try to understand what I’m saying! I am leaving you! I’m taking Cameron, and we’re going.”  
          “Going where, Linda, huh? Going where?”  
          “Next door, to John.”  
          “Oh, of course. Running to good ol’ Uncle John. Of course.”  
          “Derrick. Derrick, stop. I’ve already packed my things. Cammy! Cammy, come here!”  
          Cameron did nothing. He glanced at Bashful. The rabbit seemed a tad agitated.  
          “You aren’t taking him, Linda. I’m not letting you leave.”  
          “Shut up, Derrick. This is over. Cammy!”  
          Cameron got up from the dining table, grabbing Bashful’s cage. Pulling it along, he headed for the back door. As his father started shouting, he tugged the door open and went outside. When he went back inside, the fighting would be over. All he had to do was kill some time.  
          Truth be told, as much as he’d enjoyed Bashful at first, the rabbit now bored him. It was too predictable. Too fidgety. And, oh, how often its cage needed to be cleaned! Holding said cage, he headed to the back shed. His father kept tools in there, in case he ever needed to do some home repair.  
          When he opened the cage, it took some coaxing to get the bunny to come out. Once it did, he closed the door so it wouldn’t jump back in. It looked up at him with its strange ruby eyes. It trusted him. Did it know what he planned to do with the hammer?  
          With hard downward thrusts, he exerted some stress. When the rabbit started squealing, his motive changed: he wanted it to shut up. Its squeals of pain were ear-piercing. So he kept hitting it. Doing this, he could both blow off some steam and convince his parents to get him a new rabbit. Maybe the next one would be more interesting.  
          He wasn’t sure how long it’d been by the time he stopped. Panting, he slumped back against one of the walls. What would he say? Ah, he could say it bit him. That’d do it. He brought it into the shed and it became feral. His mother would be too worried about him and the threat of rabies to care how violent his response was. In curiosity, he gazed at the rabbit dead on the workbench. It was then that he noticed something interesting: though Bashful’s fur had been white before, the blood sopping into it dyed it pink. He leaned closer to get a better look. Indeed, he’d managed to change the color of Bashful’s fur. If washed, would it remain pink? Whatever the case, he knew it right then and there: this sight would stay with him for years to come.  
          To help his case, he grabbed the rabbit’s crushed head and placed his index finger in its mouth. Then he pressed down hard. As the rabbit’s displaced teeth dug into his skin, it hurt, but he knew it had to be done. Once he was bleeding, too, he dropped the hammer and left the shed. As he approached the back door, he mustered up some crocodile tears. Crying would help his case even more.  
          “Mom,” he cried as he entered the kitchen. There was no response. Continuing his crying only to keep up with the deception, he approached the living room. His fake response slipped away immediately, though, when he saw what awaited him inside.  
          The living room was a mess. It almost looked like a tornado has passed through. In the middle of the room, lying on her back on the carpet, was his mother. Her dark shirt had darker stains blotched on it. Her green eyes were open wide, staring up at the ceiling. Standing only a few feet in front of him now was his father. He was breathing hard. In his left hand, he held a knife. When he realized Cameron was there, he turned his head, looking down upon his son. The boy jolted, stared back in dumb terror. Killing Bashful, he could handle. Killing Max, too. But his mother, killed by his father? Killed at all? It was so unexpected! What had she done to deserve that? It was her birthday. Everything was supposed to have been okay!  
          “Cameron,” his father barked in a low, gruff voice. “Get me a trash bag.”


End file.
